THE wind blew loud, but Diamond slept a deep sleep, and never heard
it. My own impression is that every time when Diamond slept well and
remembered nothing about it in the morning, he had been all that night
at the back of the north wind. I am almost sure that was how he woke
so refreshed, and felt so quiet and hopeful all the day. Indeed he said
this much, though not to me--that always when he woke from such a sleep
there was a something in his mind, he could not tell what--could not
tell whether it was the last far-off sounds of the river dying away in
the distance, or some of the words of the endless song his mother had
read to him on the sea-shore. Sometimes he thought it must have been
the twittering of the swallows--over the shallows, you, know; but it may
have been the chirping of the dingy sparrows picking up their breakfast
in the yard--how can I tell? I don't know what I know, I only know what
I think; and to tell the truth, I am more for the swallows than the
sparrows. When he knew he was coming awake, he would sometimes try hard
to keep hold of the words of what seemed a new song, one he had not
heard before--a song in which the words and the music somehow appeared
to be all one; but even when he thought he had got them well fixed in
his mind, ever as he came awaker--as he would say--one line faded away
out of it, and then another, and then another, till at last there was
nothing left but some lovely picture of water or grass or daisies, or
something else very common, but with all the commonness polished off it,
and the lovely soul of it, which people so seldom see, and, alas! yet
seldomer believe in, shining out. But after that he would sing the
oddest, loveliest little songs to the baby--of his own making, his
mother said; but Diamond said he did not make them; they were made
somewhere inside him, and he knew nothing about them till they were
coming out.
When he woke that first morning he got up at once, saying to himself,
“I've been ill long enough, and have given a great deal of trouble; I
must try and be of use now, and help my mother.” When he went into her
room he found her lighting the fire, and his father just getting out of
bed. They had only the one room, besides the little one, not much more
than a closet, in which Diamond slept. He began at once to set things
to rights, but the baby waking up, he took him, and nursed him till
his mother had got the breakfast ready. She was looking gloomy, and his
father was silent; and indeed except Diamond had done all he possibly
could to keep out the misery that was trying to get in at doors and
windows, he too would have grown miserable, and then they would have
been all miserable together. But to try to make others comfortable is
the only way to get right comfortable ourselves, and that comes partly
of not being able to think so much about ourselves when we are helping
other people. For our Selves will always do pretty well if we don't pay
them too much attention. Our Selves are like some little children who
will be happy enough so long as they are left to their own games, but
when we begin to interfere with them, and make them presents of too nice
playthings, or too many sweet things, they begin at once to fret and
spoil.
“Why, Diamond, child!” said his mother at last, “you're as good to your
mother as if you were a girl--nursing the baby, and toasting the bread,
and sweeping up the hearth! I declare a body would think you had been
among the fairies.”
Could Diamond have had greater praise or greater pleasure? You see
when he forgot his Self his mother took care of his Self, and loved and
praised his Self. Our own praises poison our Selves, and puff and swell
them up, till they lose all shape and beauty, and become like great
toadstools. But the praises of father or mother do our Selves good, and
comfort them and make them beautiful. They never do them any harm. If
they do any harm, it comes of our mixing some of our own praises with
them, and that turns them nasty and slimy and poisonous.
When his father had finished his breakfast, which he did rather in a
hurry, he got up and went down into the yard to get out his horse and
put him to the cab.
“Won't you come and see the cab, Diamond?” he said.
“Yes, please, father--if mother can spare me a minute,” answered
Diamond.
“Bless the child! I don't want him,” said his mother cheerfully.
But as he was following his father out of the door, she called him back.
“Diamond, just hold the baby one minute. I have something to say to your
father.”
So Diamond sat down again, took the baby in his lap, and began poking
his face into its little body, laughing and singing all the while,
so that the baby crowed like a little bantam. And what he sang was
something like this--such nonsense to those that couldn't understand it!
but not to the baby, who got all the good in the world out of it:--
baby's a-sleeping wake up baby for all the swallows are the merriest
fellows and have the yellowest children who would go sleeping and
snore like a gaby disturbing his mother and father and brother and all
a-boring their ears with his snoring snoring snoring for himself and no
other for himself in particular wake up baby sit up perpendicular hark
to the gushing hark to the rushing where the sheep are the woolliest and
the lambs the unruliest and their tails the whitest and their eyes the
brightest and baby's the bonniest and baby's the funniest and baby's the
shiniest and baby's the tiniest and baby's the merriest and baby's
the worriest of all the lambs that plague their dams and mother's
the whitest of all the dams that feed the lambs that go crop-cropping
without stop-stopping and father's the best of all the swallows that
build their nest out of the shining shallows and he has the merriest
children that's baby and Diamond and Diamond and baby and baby and
Diamond and Diamond and baby--
Here Diamond's knees went off in a wild dance which tossed the baby
about and shook the laughter out of him in immoderate peals. His mother
had been listening at the door to the last few lines of his song, and
came in with the tears in her eyes. She took the baby from him, gave him
a kiss, and told him to run to his father.
By the time Diamond got into the yard, the horse was between the shafts,
and his father was looping the traces on. Diamond went round to look at
the horse. The sight of him made him feel very queer. He did not know
much about different horses, and all other horses than their own were
very much the same to him. But he could not make it out. This was
Diamond and it wasn't Diamond. Diamond didn't hang his head like that;
yet the head that was hanging was very like the one that Diamond used
to hold so high. Diamond's bones didn't show through his skin like that;
but the skin they pushed out of shape so was very like Diamond's skin;
and the bones might be Diamond's bones, for he had never seen the shape
of them. But when he came round in front of the old horse, and he put
out his long neck, and began sniffing at him and rubbing his upper lip
and his nose on him, then Diamond saw it could be no other than old
Diamond, and he did just as his father had done before--put his arms
round his neck and cried--but not much.
“Ain't it jolly, father?” he said. “Was there ever anybody so lucky as
me? Dear old Diamond!”
And he hugged the horse again, and kissed both his big hairy cheeks. He
could only manage one at a time, however--the other cheek was so far off
on the other side of his big head.
His father mounted the box with just the same air, as Diamond thought,
with which he had used to get upon the coach-box, and Diamond said
to himself, “Father's as grand as ever anyhow.” He had kept his brown
livery-coat, only his wife had taken the silver buttons off and put
brass ones instead, because they did not think it polite to Mr. Coleman
in his fallen fortunes to let his crest be seen upon the box of a cab.
Old Diamond had kept just his collar; and that had the silver crest upon
it still, for his master thought nobody would notice that, and so let it
remain for a memorial of the better days of which it reminded him--not
unpleasantly, seeing it had been by no fault either of his or of the old
horse's that they had come down in the world together.
“Oh, father, do let me drive a bit,” said Diamond, jumping up on the box
beside him.
His father changed places with him at once, putting the reins into his
hands. Diamond gathered them up eagerly.
“Don't pull at his mouth,” said his father, “just feel, at it gently
to let him know you're there and attending to him. That's what I call
talking to him through the reins.”
“Yes, father, I understand,” said Diamond. Then to the horse he said,
“Go on Diamond.” And old Diamond's ponderous bulk began at once to move
to the voice of the little boy.
But before they had reached the entrance of the mews, another voice
called after young Diamond, which, in his turn, he had to obey, for it
was that of his mother. “Diamond! Diamond!” it cried; and Diamond pulled
the reins, and the horse stood still as a stone.
“Husband,” said his mother, coming up, “you're never going to trust him
with the reins--a baby like that?”
“He must learn some day, and he can't begin too soon. I see already he's
a born coachman,” said his father proudly. “And I don't see well how
he could escape it, for my father and my grandfather, that's his
great-grandfather, was all coachmen, I'm told; so it must come natural
to him, any one would think. Besides, you see, old Diamond's as proud of
him as we are our own selves, wife. Don't you see how he's turning round
his ears, with the mouths of them open, for the first word he speaks to
tumble in? He's too well bred to turn his head, you know.”
“Well, but, husband, I can't do without him to-day. Everything's got to
be done, you know. It's my first day here. And there's that baby!”
“Bless you, wife! I never meant to take him away--only to the bottom of
Endell Street. He can watch his way back.”
“No thank you, father; not to-day,” said Diamond. “Mother wants me.
Perhaps she'll let me go another day.”
“Very well, my man,” said his father, and took the reins which Diamond
was holding out to him.
Diamond got down, a little disappointed of course, and went with his
mother, who was too pleased to speak. She only took hold of his hand as
tight as if she had been afraid of his running away instead of glad that
he would not leave her.
Now, although they did not know it, the owner of the stables, the same
man who had sold the horse to his father, had been standing just inside
one of the stable-doors, with his hands in his pockets, and had heard
and seen all that passed; and from that day John Stonecrop took a great
fancy to the little boy. And this was the beginning of what came of it.
The same evening, just as Diamond was feeling tired of the day's work,
and wishing his father would come home, Mr. Stonecrop knocked at the
door. His mother went and opened it.
“Good evening, ma'am,” said he. “Is the little master in?”
“Yes, to be sure he is--at your service, I'm sure, Mr. Stonecrop,” said
his mother.
“No, no, ma'am; it's I'm at his service. I'm just a-going out with my
own cab, and if he likes to come with me, he shall drive my old horse
till he's tired.”
“It's getting rather late for him,” said his mother thoughtfully. “You
see he's been an invalid.”
Diamond thought, what a funny thing! How could he have been an invalid
when he did not even know what the word meant? But, of course, his
mother was right.
“Oh, well,” said Mr. Stonecrop, “I can just let him drive through
Bloomsbury Square, and then he shall run home again.”
“Very good, sir. And I'm much obliged to you,” said his mother.
And Diamond, dancing with delight, got his cap, put his hand in Mr.
Stonecrop's, and went with him to the yard where the cab was waiting.
He did not think the horse looked nearly so nice as Diamond, nor Mr.
Stonecrop nearly so grand as his father; but he was none, the less
pleased. He got up on the box, and his new friend got up beside him.
“What's the horse's name?” whispered Diamond, as he took the reins from
the man.
“It's not a nice name,” said Mr. Stonecrop. “You needn't call him by it.
I didn't give it him. He'll go well enough without it. Give the boy a
whip, Jack. I never carries one when I drive old----”
He didn't finish the sentence. Jack handed Diamond a whip, with which,
by holding it half down the stick, he managed just to flack the haunches
of the horse; and away he went.
“Mind the gate,” said Mr. Stonecrop; and Diamond did mind the gate, and
guided the nameless horse through it in safety, pulling him this way and
that according as was necessary. Diamond learned to drive all the sooner
that he had been accustomed to do what he was told, and could obey the
smallest hint in a moment. Nothing helps one to get on like that. Some
people don't know how to do what they are told; they have not been used
to it, and they neither understand quickly nor are able to turn what
they do understand into action quickly. With an obedient mind one learns
the rights of things fast enough; for it is the law of the universe, and
to obey is to understand.
“Look out!” cried Mr. Stonecrop, as they were turning the corner into
Bloomsbury Square.
It was getting dusky now. A cab was approaching rather rapidly from
the opposite direction, and Diamond pulling aside, and the other driver
pulling up, they only just escaped a collision. Then they knew each
other.
“Why, Diamond, it's a bad beginning to run into your own father,” cried
the driver.
“But, father, wouldn't it have been a bad ending to run into your own
son?” said Diamond in return; and the two men laughed heartily.
“This is very kind of you, I'm sure, Stonecrop,” said his father.
“Not a bit. He's a brave fellow, and'll be fit to drive on his own hook
in a week or two. But I think you'd better let him drive you home now,
for his mother don't like his having over much of the night air, and I
promised not to take him farther than the square.”
“Come along then, Diamond,” said his father, as he brought his cab up to
the other, and moved off the box to the seat beside it. Diamond jumped
across, caught at the reins, said “Good-night, and thank you, Mr.
Stonecrop,” and drove away home, feeling more of a man than he had ever
yet had a chance of feeling in all his life. Nor did his father find it
necessary to give him a single hint as to his driving. Only I suspect
the fact that it was old Diamond, and old Diamond on his way to his
stable, may have had something to do with young Diamond's success.
“Well, child,” said his mother, when he entered the room, “you've not
been long gone.”
“No, mother; here I am. Give me the baby.”
“The baby's asleep,” said his mother.
“Then give him to me, and I'll lay him down.”
But as Diamond took him, he woke up and began to laugh. For he was
indeed one of the merriest children. And no wonder, for he was as plump
as a plum-pudding, and had never had an ache or a pain that lasted more
than five minutes at a time. Diamond sat down with him and began to sing
to him.
baby baby babbing your father's gone a-cabbing to catch a shilling for
its pence to make the baby babbing dance for old Diamond's a duck they
say he can swim but the duck of diamonds is baby that's him and of all
the swallows the merriest fellows that bake their cake with the water
they shake out of the river flowing for ever and make dust into clay on
the shiniest day to build their nest father's the best and mother's the
whitest and her eyes are the brightest of all the dams that watch their
lambs cropping the grass where the waters pass singing for ever and of
all the lambs with the shakingest tails and the jumpingest feet baby's
the funniest baby's the bonniest and he never wails and he's always
sweet and Diamond's his nurse and Diamond's his nurse and Diamond's his
nurse
When Diamond's rhymes grew scarce, he always began dancing the baby.
Some people wondered that such a child could rhyme as he did, but his
rhymes were not very good, for he was only trying to remember what he
had heard the river sing at the back of the north wind.